


Trigger Happy Jack

by db_gaia (punkrockgaia)



Series: Bad Romance [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alcohol, Asphyxiation, Awkward Cocktail Parties, Blood, Consensual but Possibly Triggering - Freeform, Domestic Squabbling, Gun play, M/M, Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/db_gaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can't talk to a psycho like a normal human being...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This ain't no headtrip, honey; this is a collision on the road

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is _heavily_ influenced by the awesome NV fan art and general fandom awesomeness of Nazi-Nurse on Tumblr. Diego is her OC, and the character descriptions are based on her designs. If you love Night Vale, you owe it to yourself to check out her blog.
> 
> FYI, Diego is Carlos' double in Desert Bluffs. He's also a scientist, but much more corporate. He works for Strex. In this fic, the people of Night Vale have gotten a bit more used to the DB/Strex folks being around (i.e. they're not trying to kill them on sight), and some of them are getting to be known around town, like Diego and Kevin.
> 
> The title is from the song "Trigger Happy Jack (Drive by A-Go-Go)" by Poe. Chapter titles and summaries are lyrics from the same song.

Nothing might have happened had Carlos said "I'm sorry." Not that it was his fault, exactly, not really, well, kinda, but... He should have remembered that the Law of Unintended Consequences was strictly enforced in Night Vale.

He was in a foul mood. He'd put the rogue cells into the Petri dish, and seen them divide from one to two, from two to four, from four to sixteen. And then it had gotten stupid. Sixteen to fifty. Fifty to 107. Then back down to two, but this time they were plant cells rather than the paramecia they had been at the beginning of the experiment. No reason, no rhyme.

He slammed his "Totally-Not-A-Pen (tm)" down on the lab table. CHRIST. He had to develop a new protocol, obviously. Or quit science and get a job delivering pizza for Big Rico.

And then he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Cecil, face set in a petulant scowl.

"What?"

"You ready to go?"

"What are you talking about?"

Cecil huffed. "The cocktail party. Are you ready to go?"

For the first time that evening, Carlos took his lover's full form in. He was wearing a pair of tight, slightly iridescent purple pants, a black suit jacket, and a white t-shirt that read "Fuck Corporate Media" in black lettering. The t-shirt was worn to a tissue-paper consistency and clung to his torso fetchingly. The overall effect was attractive bordering on slutty, but Carlos was not in the mood.

"Go where, now?"

Cecil cocked a graceful hip and snorted. "The NVCR/StrexCorp Happy Holidays Cocktail Party and Get to Know You Mixer. Are you ready?"

Carlos groaned and grabbed his head. "Geez, Cecil, I totally forgot. I'm kind of in the middle of something, here. Plus, I hate that kind of thing. Do you really want to go? It sounds stupid."

"Uh, yeah? It's only like totally my job and stuff? Like, it would look really bad for me if I didn't go?" 

He normally found Cecil's occasional lapse into Valley Girl vapidity charming, but at that moment it grated on him like 80-grit sandpaper across his nipples. 

Carlos spoke slowly and carefully. "Let me get this straight -- you are worrying about how it will look if you miss a cocktail party that's being thrown by your new corporate overlords, but you're planning on wearing a shirt that tells them to go fuck themselves?"

"I'm making a statement. They might own the station, but they don't own me, you know? They should understand that I'm not going to roll over for their strong-arm hyper-capitalist crypto-fascist tactics."

"What are you now, Karl Marx?"

"I'm not into those old slapstick movies."

Carlos paused, then shook his head. "Not the Marx Brothers -- oh, never mind. Anyway, I'm getting a little sick of hearing you bitch about them constantly. It's ruining our time together. You don't even shut up about them in bed! And I'm not sure I see your objection, to be honest. I mean, yeah, they're not ideal, but at least they're not likely to actually physically devour you."

"Look, the old Station Management might have been... harsh, but they were _real_ , you know? They weren't some soulless entity. Okay, okay, yeah, they _were_ soulless entities, but they were soulless entities with soul, you know?"

"No, I have no idea what you're talking about. And I also have no idea why you're staying there, if you're so miserable."

"I'm sorry, but what are you suggesting?" Cecil's pallid eyes had narrowed to slits and a flush had risen behind the golden tan of his cheeks. 

"Just quit. Just quit the fucking station. Quit, and I'll apply to get a research grant somewhere else, and we can get out of here! Maybe I can salvage my reputation, even. Do you know that the last paper I submitted for journal publication was returned to me with a pamphlet on kicking my dangerous addiction to psychedelics?"

Cecil looked as if Carlos had just suggested bungee jumping without a cord, or eating a big bowl of shredded wheat. "What? Leave Night Vale? You've **got** to be joking."

"Yeah, 'cause this is such a wonderful place to live, isn't it? How many people got sucked into space by that crack in the atmosphere yesterday? Fifty?"

"No, Mr. Smart Guy. I'll have you know that it was only up to 48 as of last count."

"Oh, excuse me. So sorry my figures were off. Only 48. Only 48 people disappeared into the sky, never to be seen again."

"What, like people don't die in other towns?"

"Of course they do, but not like that! Not so suddenly, not so brutally, and NOT SO FREQUENTLY."

"Okay, let's say I did want to leave the finest town on earth so that you can go do your stupid science somewhere else. What am I supposed to do with my life? Follow around in your footsteps adoringly?"

"There are other radio stations in the world, Cecil! You can do your little show elsewhere."

"Little show. Little show! I'll have you know it's a pretty important 'little show,' actually! People depend on me! I can't just leave them!"

Carlos squeezed his eyes tight. He'd come in second to the damn radio station one time too many. "Listen up. I don't intend on staying here forever, just spinning my wheels, so you'd better start thinking about what you care about more, the show or me. And, oh, 'important'? Yeah, tell yourself that when I'm outta here. Tell yourself you're somehow crucial to the community. Tell yourself that if you leave they can't train somebody off the street to replace you."

He knew he'd gone too far -- Cecil tended to be vain about his job, but Carlos knew that vanity masked an underlying insecurity. But he really didn't care. He'd reached his limit for listening to Cecil go on about Strex this and Strex that, and he was feeling fed up with Night Vale, and Cecil seemed to take the fact that he was here for granted, and if he had to hurt him a little to get his point across, well, so be it. Pain could be a motivator. Besides, he'd called science stupid. He decided to go for the jugular. He leaned over until his nose was about an inch from Cecil's and spoke slowly and precisely.

"Hey, you know, maybe they can get that Kevin guy to do it. I bet he'd do a pretty good job."

Cecil did what Carlos felt was a spot-on impression of a goldfish, eyes bugged out, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. He stood there like that for a moment, then turned on his heel, flipping Carlos off behind his back as he strode out. 

"Brilliant comeback, Ceese!" 

The sound of the door slamming was the only response.


	2. He wants me right down on my knees, crumbling in disgrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He underestimates my mind; I know he's messing with my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "genius or idiot" line isn't mine; it's more or less lifted from Woody Allen. The "Barbie tampon" line isn't mine either, a college friend of mine came up with that one to describe cigarettes of the Virginia Slims ilk. But I wish I'd said it! Does that count for anything?

Cecil growled as he stalked away from the laboratory. 

"Awwww, Cecil," sighed a voice from the shrubbery. "Go back in there. I'm sure he didn't mean it."

"Stuff it, Robbie," he barked, glaring at the leather-balaclava-masked man holding a directional mic. Robbie shrugged and crouched back into the greenery.

Cecil kicked angrily at a twig on the sidewalk, then opened the door to his elderly sedan, got inside, and slammed it shut. He stabbed the key into the ignition, then jammed the transmission into drive. He'd planned to make a dramatic exit, tires squealing, but the engine immediately stalled. Cursing, he pumped the gas and the car lurched away from the curb.

He was _fuming_. Fuming and very, very wounded. Carlos knew how important his job was to him. His job, and his town! They really did need him. At least, he thought so. It would be like asking him to betray his family. Worse. Like chopping off one of his limbs. When he and Carlos had first gotten together, he'd dreamed that he'd finally found someone who understood him. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he was alone, yet again. It figured.

Tears had just begun to prick at the corners of his eyes when he pulled into the station parking lot. He parked the car, then took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to hold it together. He could save his breakdown for the privacy of his own apartment.

After a moment, the nauseating waves of emotion began to subside, leaving a cold, dead emptiness in their wake. This, he could handle. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and got out of the car. 

He scuffed his feet through the gravel of the lot, not in a big hurry to get into the building. He hadn't actually been planning on staying long. He'd thought he and Carlos would make an appearance, have a drink, shake a few hands, live through some boring shop talk, and then leave for a night of tooth-rattling sex. Now that was down the tubes, wasn't it? He wasn't even sure if they were still together. He wasn't sure he that he wanted them to be. 

"Hey, Cecil!" chirped a voice behind him. He turned to see Michaela from sales, tottering toward the low-slung building on stiletto heels. "Where's your other half?"

Cecil winced. "Oh, he's... He's tied up over at the lab, you know, I mean, not _literally_ tied up, but, you know, science and all."

"Oh, that's too bad. I asked my ex if he'd be my date tonight, but that jerk turned me down! Just because he's getting married tomorrow. What an ass!"

"It's his loss." He offered Michaela his arm. "Well, since we are similarly unencumbered, allow me to escort you into this high-class booze-up. Shall we?" She hooked her elbow around his, giggling, and they made their way into the station. 

The small reception area was populated by small clusters of uncomfortable looking partygoers holding plastic cups full of various beverages. The groups were pretty starkly segregated into station staff and Strex employees, evident by the divergence in their wardrobes. Cecil wondered briefly if the people of Desert Bluffs were all issued charcoal-grey suits at birth. He and Michaela stopped and made small talk with a group of their co-workers, then Cecil excused himself in search of an extremely dry gin martini. 

His heart skipped a beat when he spotted a familiar lush head of hair and broad shoulders at the rickety table that was serving as the bar. Carlos? Had he decided to come after all? And how had he beat him there? And where was his lab coat? The man turned, and Cecil realized that it wasn't Carlos, after all. It was that jerkoff Diego. And where Diego was, Kevin was sure to follow. He'd _definitely_ be needing that martini, or possibly a pitcher of them. A very large pitcher.

Cecil held his head high and bumped Carlos' double ever-so-slightly out of the way, then ordered his cocktail from the wide-eyed intern behind the table. Diego raised a well-groomed eyebrow.

"Palmer," he sneered, taking a sip of scotch.

"Diego. And where's your homunculus this evening?"

"I assume you mean my beautiful Kevin. He's at home, where I left him."

"Oh, really? Too horrifying to bring out in public, I guess."

"Now, now, we know which of the doppelgängers got all the looks, and hint: it's not you. I know that you've not seen yourself in a while, but believe me, it's not a pleasant sight. No, I don't like bringing my darling into this blasted hellscape of a town if I can help it."

"Aw, that's too bad. I bet he's a real gas at parties."

Diego grinned a sharklike grin. "Oh, he is. He loves parties. Of course, there are usually fewer guests at the end of the night than there were at the beginning. Breathing guests, that is. We'll have to have you and your keeper over for a soiree sometime. Speaking of, where is that numbskull you rub your no doubt substandard and syphilitic genitalia against?"

"Mmm. He's out doing real science. You know, like a real scientist? And not a corporate hack?"

"Oh, yes, and I see we have a juvenile anarchic pseudo-socialist mindset tonight. Nice ensemble. Were you _trying_ to look like a junkie whore circa 1995?"

Cecil started to say something along the lines of "I borrowed it from your mom" when he saw a movement out of his peripheral vision and turned his head to see Intern Bryson holding his martini in a trembling hand. He turned back to deliver his crushing wit to the defenseless Diego, but the other man had left. Curses!

He made his way back to his little clutch of NVCR staff in an even blacker mood than the one he'd been in previously. Something about Diego offended him on a cellular level. It was the way he was exactly like Carlos, but not like Carlos at all. Although Carlos also apparently thought he was stupid and inconsequential, so maybe they were more alike than he'd realized. He stewed morosely into his drink, dislodging the olive from the little toothpick and poking at it. He took a sip, then shuddered. They'd have to add a question about bartending skills the next time they revised the internship application. 

"Cecil? Cecil?" He hadn't noticed that Wendy, their part time HR rep, was trying to get his attention. 

"Hmm wha?"

"Tell everybody that funny story you were telling me about John Peters. You know, the farmer?"

"Oh, uh..." He proceeded to anemically relay an anecdote about his fourth-grade class trip to the Peters' farm, an escaped goat, and a field of invisible corn. His heart wasn't in it, but his co-workers apparently didn't notice. They laughed at all the right spots, but the attention didn't cheer him up any. By the time he was done with his story, he had finished his drink. 

"Gotta go for a refill, be right back." He held up his cup and went back for the bar. As he did, he noticed he felt just the slightest bit woozy. Maybe it hadn't been such an awful martini after all. Of course, he hadn't eaten much that day other than the olive from his first drink, so maybe that was it. Perhaps a stop at the hors d'oeuvres table would be in order. First things first, though. More drink. 

He made chit chat with the cloaked host of the weekly terrified moaning show while he waited for his drink, then directed his steps toward another table, this one loaded down with various canapés. Before he could get there, though, a wool-jacketed arm shot out of a crowd of other wool jackets, jostling him and spilling his drink down the front of his shirt. Frowning, he glared at his assailant. _Diego._

"Oh, I'm sorry, Palmer. I didn't mean to ruin your couture."

"Get bent."

"Fashionable AND eloquent. I can see why you're the voice of this flaccid little town. But I'm sorry, truly I am. Come here, come here. I want you to meet some of your new owners. And try to smile, will you? You're less grotesque when you smile."

Gritting his teeth, Cecil turned to face the group of Strex-ers. Diego clapped him on the shoulder. 

"This here, **this here** is Cecil Palmer, the prize pig of this particular slop hole. He's either a genius or an idiot; see if you can guess which one."

There was much chortling from the suits, and Cecil began to see red. One of them, a skeletal-looking brunette woman wearing pinstripes grabbed his arm with a crimson-taloned hand. 

"So you're the one that has that odd little show. Kind of like ours, but... rinky-dink."

He smiled tightly. Little show, there it was again. That was getting old. "Actually, I have quite a wide listenership, and a lot of influence in the community."

Diego ruffled his hair, and Cecil had to resist the urge to break his arm. "It's so cute when lower primates try to be like people, don't you think? Okay, toddle along, Spanky. I just wanted to show them what Acquisitions bought with their spare change."

"Listen here, I'm getting a little sick of this treatment."

"No, you listen. We all?" He gestured toward the assembled group. "We all own you now. You don't seem to get that. And all of you Night Vale types, but you particularly, need to adjust your personalities accordingly. The sooner you get on board with the Strex way of life, the better it will be for you."

Cecil snorted. "I'd rather be dead."

Diego's obsidian eyes glinted. "That can be arranged." He resumed his conversation as if Cecil had never been there.

Well, shit. This was some swell party, for sure. _I should just leave,_ he thought. But in the course of being humiliated by Diego and his flunkies, he'd drained his glass again. He probably wasn't safe to drive, not judging by the way his vision was starting to get wobbly around the edges, his third eye not quite coordinating in motion with the other two. Oh, well, if he was going to be there a while, he might as well get another drink. He'd sip this one, though. For sure.

He went back to the bar, feeling like he wasn't necessarily making contact with the ground on each step. It wasn't all bad, though. He was getting funnier and more interesting as the minutes passed. 

He grabbed his third martini from a tentative Bryson, chugged it, felt it hit his system like a solid glass brick, ordered another, then went back to his group. He noticed that the awkward gathering was starting to break up. 

"Are you okay, Cecil?" Alvin, who did the farm report and also fixed the console when it broke, looked concerned.

"I'm fan-fucking-tastic, Alvin, thanks for asking. Hey, where did Michaela go? I wanna hear about her cats."

"She's out smoking."

"Oh, hey, great."

Balance just the tiniest bit off, Cecil wove his way through the sparse crowd and out to the front stoop, where Michaela stood, puffing on a cigarette. He grabbed the pack out of her hand.

"Gimme."

"Hey! I thought you quit!"

"I did. That's why I don't have my own." He pulled a very long, thin cigarette from the pack. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's supposed to be more feminine."

He took a swig of the gin in his glass. "It looks like a fucking Barbie tampon." God, he was so fucking FUNNY all of a sudden.

"You're drunk."

"No! I'm, uh..." He tried to light the cigarette, but kept missing the end. Michaela took the lighter from his hand and lit it for him. "Yeah. I'm pretty wasted."

"I'll drive you home."

"Nah, nah, I don't wanna go." 

"Come on, go back to your apartment. Don't you want to see Carlos?"

And just like that, everything snapped. Cecil felt the sob welling up inside his chest and was powerless to stop it from bursting into the chill night air. He began to shake, and slumped against the stucco wall of the station until he slid to the ground and sat heavily in the dust. 

Michaela squatted next to him. "Hey, hey, Cecil, I'm sorry. Is there something... wrong?"

Cecil began to laugh even as the tears ran down his face. "Wow, Michaela, you missed your calling. You shoulda been a private eye."

"Is it Carlos?"

He couldn't bring himself to answer, only nodded. With a grunt, Michaela sat down next to him and put her arm around his shoulders. "Aw, Cecil, I'm sorry." She squeezed him tight. "Hey, you wanna see some pictures of my cats?"

Cecil nodded again, and Michaela pulled out her phone.


	3. There's nothing more sadistic than an infant waving his pistol in my face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I hate myself  
> Just enough to want him  
> And I hate him just enough  
> To get off

They sat in the dirt outside the station for a little while, giggling over the adorable pictures Michaela had taken of her litter of tabbies. She offered several more times to take Cecil home, but he declined. He said didn't like being without his car, but really, he didn't want to be at home where everything reminded him of Carlos. The station was better, the station was safe, the station was his. Well, if those Strex assholes didn't get their gross oily tentacles all over everything, anyway. He figured he'd sleep it off on the couch in the break room, then drive home in the morning and try to figure out what the hell was going on with his life.

As they sat, they watched people leave the building one-by-one, two-by-two, and in groups. A few of them stared at the pair, but most everyone ignored them. Soon, it became evident that the place had more or less cleared out for the night. Cecil struggled to his feet and offered a hand up to Michaela, who clutched him in an awkward bear hug.

"Don't worry, Cecil, everything's going to be all right." 

"Thanks, Michaela. I'll see you Monday, okay? Have a good weekend."

"I will. If you need anything, give me a call, okay?"

"Yep. I promise. See you Monday."

He waved at Michaela, then heaved a deep sigh. Ugh. He was still WAY too drunk to drive, but he'd lost the edge off of his buzz. Sucked.

He wandered back inside, then brightened when he saw Bryson carefully putting the bottles from the "bar" into cardboard boxes. There was an ice chest with some off-brand chablis, labels peeling listlessly in room-temperature water. He grabbed two bottles as he walked by.

"Yoink."

Bryson looked tortured, a bright red flush crossing his cheeks. "Uh, Mr., Mr. Palmer? Uh, I don't think that's a good idea..."

Cecil tucked both bottles under his left arm and patted him on the shoulder. "Intern Bryson, you are a very conscientious young man. And I thank you for your concern. But not to worry, I'm not going to bother anyone, I'm just going to toddle into the back and drink until my liver explodes. You'll understand when you're older." He pivoted and continued to walk deeper into the station, whistling as he went. 

He got back to the break room and carefully set the tepid wine next to the battered blue couch, then made a quick stop in the men's room to take a piss and pet Koshekh. As he was picking the cat hair off of his palms (always remember to dry your hands thoroughly before you pet the cat), he felt the sudden urge to listen to some old weather reports. He knew the station was rebroadcasting some tapes on loan from the numbers station so as to free up staff for the party, so he could go into the booth and listen in peace. 

He stopped outside the booth and peered through the window. Someone was standing inside, facing away from him. A very familiar someone. A noxious weed of a someone. He silently eased open the door.

"What the fuck are you doing in my booth?"

Diego jumped and wheeled around, startled. He'd startled Diego. Diego was startled by him. It was a proud moment.

Well, a proud moment until Diego surged forward and clipped him on the chin with a heavy fist, sending him crashing to the floor. He wasn't down for long, though. You don't live to adulthood in Night Vale without developing some pretty good reflexes. He crouched low and lunged up and forward, driving his head into Diego's solar plexus.

Diego grunted and doubled over, but he had some pretty good reflexes of his own, grabbing Cecil under the arms and driving his knee into Cecil's third eye. A bolt of pain shot through his head, and he screeched. 

"Ah! Christ! My eye!"

"You should get the ugly thing removed anyway. How'd you like me to do it for you right now?" 

Cecil could see the flash of a blade in the lights from the booth console. He snickered. "Try me, tough guy. I'd like to see you URK!" His words were cut off by Diego's thick meaty fingers forcing their way into his mouth, pinching his tongue painfully.

"Or maybe I could cut this insolent fucking tongue out of your head. That would be nice, give everyone some peace and quiet for a change."

"Thuck you!" lisped Cecil around the digits.

Diego chuckled darkly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I'm just like your beloved Carlos, but I'm not a whiny little pussy." He attempted to drive his fingers further down Cecil's throat, but Cecil bit down as hard as he could. Sure, he bit his own tongue in the process, but omelets, eggs, et cetera, et cetera.

Diego yelped and withdrew his hand, a shiny ribbon of blood streaking down to the palm. Cecil grinned and made a big show of licking his lips, even though he was fairly certain it was mostly his own blood he was swallowing. It made a good visual, anyway. 

Diego seemed to agree. Snarling, he tossed the knife away and grabbed Cecil by the back of the head, forcing his mouth to his in a brutal kiss, a kiss that had _nothing_ to do with love or affection or anything positive whatsoever. It was precisely what Cecil needed. He returned the kiss with just as much loathing as he was receiving.

He was forced to his knees by rough pressure on his shoulders. He knelt in front of Diego, face to face with the erection distorting the elegant lines of his suit pants and felt himself throb right along with him. He glared as Diego laced his fingers through his hair. 

"Open wide, worm." 

Not breaking eye contact, Cecil opened his mouth, expecting a cock to slide across his tongue. Instead, Diego unbuttoned his jacket and pulled a gleaming Desert Eagle from a concealed shoulder holster and thrust it between Cecil's lips, chipping a molar in the process. Cecil willed himself not to flinch.

"Now be a good little piece of property and suck what Uncle Diego has to give you, and maybe you won't die."

Cecil complied. The gun barrel tasted of metal and grease, and it felt cold as Diego forced it down his windpipe. He continued to stare into his eyes, even though tears clouded his vision every time the pistol triggered his gag reflex. He could see lust smoldering in those featureless ebony voids. He knew the feeling. He also knew the void. 

He threw his head back, forcing the gun out of his mouth. "Just fucking get it over with and pull the trigger, will you?" His voice sounded rough and hoarse to his ears. 

Diego smiled slowly. "No," he drawled. "No, because you asked me to. You don't get to call the shots, pun very much intended. Get up."

"Make me."

Diego clutched a fistful of Cecil's t-shirt in his fist and yanked him to his feet, rending the fragile fabric in the process. They stood eye-to-eye for a moment. 

"You are," growled Diego, spit flying from his mouth and misting Cecil's face, "without a doubt, the most insufferable, intransigent, unteachable pain in the ass I've ever met. I'm going to _enjoy_ breaking you. Now make yourself useful and bend over." He grabbed Cecil's waist and spun him around, then roughly bent him over the console. He fiddled with the fly on Cecil's pants, then finally unzipped them and forced them (along with his underwear) down around his ankles. Cecil could hear a rustle of fabric, then the crinkling of a wrapper, and then BAM!

OUCH! Christ almighty! He howled as Diego slammed his cock home with no warning or preamble. It hurt like fire, like an iron bar was tearing him open. The pain was unreal. It was also really, really fucking hot. 

Diego began to savagely thrust back and forth, grunting as he did. Cecil slammed back into him, filled with a perverse joy in taking whatever he could dish out. His breath was rasping out in deep, desperate gasps, and his cock positively _ached_ between his legs. 

"Fuck, fuck, touch me, you fucking jackass," he gasped. 

"Touch yourself, I'm not going near your junk. Not with the hands I'm, unf, bringing home to my Kevin."

"God, you're such a prick." He did as he was commanded though, stroking himself roughly in time with Diego's thrusts. 

Diego laughed. "You don't know the half of it. I'm, um, uh, going to fucking destroy everything you love. And you'll, oh!, you'll fucking thank me. And then, when I crush you under my boot heel, you'll, ahhh, you'll be saying my name with your last, fuck!, fucking breath."

Cecil snorted and gasped at the same time, not the most attractive noise he'd ever made. "Aah! Oh, honey, did you come up with that corny line on your own, or did you have help?"

"Christ, do you ever shut up?"

"Umm, oh, oh, rare-rarely."

"Well, then, I'm going to fucking shut you up if you can't do it yourself." 

Cecil felt strong hands close around his throat, choking off his wind. He began to tremble as he struggled for air just as a completely monster orgasm started to unfurl through his lower belly. He wasn't even touching himself any more, but he felt like he was going to blast through the roof. Stars exploded behind his eyes as he came like he was a teenager. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe at all, but in his mind, he cried out for Carlos. Then everything went black.


	4. And you've got me feeling oh just like a roadkill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another one of his Jedi mind tricks.

Cecil woke up just as the rosy light of dawn forced itself through the dusty Venetian blinds of the breakroom. He was flat on his back on the couch, fully dressed, with no idea how he had gotten there. His head felt like it was going to split open, and he might have dismissed the last part of the evening as nothing more than a drunken dream were it not for the fact that his neck pretty well felt like it had been strangled on, and his ass felt like it had been reamed by a rolling pin. 

He groaned and rolled over, debating whether it would be worth it to try to crawl to the bathroom for a drink of water. Alvin walked past him on the way to present the morning farm report, a disgusted look on his face. Cecil waved at him, then his gaze fell on a small pile of bills and coins on the floor next to the couch. He fumbled around and grabbed the money, along with a note underneath it. 

"Dear Palmer," the note read. "You were worth every penny. Looking forward to destroying your life, Diego." The cash added up to $2.53. Classy. He shrugged and pocketed the money, then crumpled up the paper and tossed it toward a nearby wastepaper basket. He missed. 

He felt revolted and sick and dirty. He was glad that he didn't have to do his show on the weekends, because he was planning on spending several days in a scalding shower, then maybe taking some steel wool to his entire body surface. Maybe he could speed things up by taking a bath in boiling bleach. Anything to get the memory of Diego out of his pores. 

He buried his face in the couch pillow. Maybe if he laid there long enough, he'd die. They could just bury him in the couch. Ooh, or set it on fire, Viking-style. That would be cool. Of course, they'd have to find a new voice. Maybe that Bryson kid? Nah, he was too uptight. He'd never make it. It would be surprising if he even made it to the end of the next week, honestly. He should remember to pick up a sympathy card for his family. Oh, right, he was going to die on the couch. Never mind.

So who could do the show? He sighed. Oh, shit, just let Kevin have it. He was going to have it eventually, if Strex and Diego had their way. Carlos was right, anyhow. There wasn't anything special about him. A monkey could do his job, if it were a talking monkey. With limited clairvoyance. And a snappy wardrobe. Not that the wardrobe probably mattered, since it was radio and not television, but it really did seem to help to dress nicely, a professional attitude --

Oh, hey, speaking of Carlos, there he was. 

THERE HE WAS! He gasped and sat up, then immediately regretted it as the room began to spin. He fell back onto the couch. Carlos made a little noise of concern, then was right there, kneeling at his side. 

"Cecil, Cecil! Are you okay? I've been looking all over for you! You look horrible! What happened to your eye? And your neck? And your shirt?"

Cecil had to think fast. "You should see the other guy. And by 'the other guy,' I mean the console. Which is not injured at all. I tripped and smacked my forehead off of it."

"But, but your neck!"

"Oh, that." He shrugged. "You know, parties."

"Really?"

"Yeah, parties."

Carlos looked thoughtful. "Wow, must have been one hell of a shindig. I don't think I'll be letting you go to too many of these unescorted in the future. You might need the backup, at the very least."

Sickness and self-loathing aside, Cecil could not let that pass. "Oh, the future? It didn't sound like you thought we had one of those."

Carlos colored briefly and ducked his head. "Yeah, about that. I'm sorry, Ceese. I was being kind of a dick last night. After you left, though, I spent a long time thinking, and the truth is, I was jealous."

Cecil blinked, confused. "Jealous? Of what?"

Carlos laughed ruefully. "What am I _not_ jealous of? That's more the question. I'm jealous of how much joy your job gives you, especially since mine's so frustrating right now. I'm jealous of how much you belong in this town. I've never belonged anywhere the way you belong in Night Vale. And you know? The town belongs with you, too. So I understand why all this Strex stuff bothers you so much. It's threatening a part of yourself. But you know what I'm most jealous of?"

"What?"

"This place. The station. Because no matter how much or how long I love you, the station's always going to have first dibs on your heart."

"Oh, Carlos!" Swept away by emotion, Cecil grabbed Carlos' head and clutched it to his chest. "You're so silly! Of course I love the station. The station's been here for me when, well, when I didn't have anyone else. I'll always love the station. But I don't need it like I used to. Now things are different, I guess?"

"Yeah, they are. You're never going to feel alone again, not if I have anything to say about it. Oh, and Cecil?"

"Yes, Amazing Carlos?"

"Don't call me that, Ceese. It makes me sound like a magician or a juggler or something. But, uh, what I was going to say is that if you want to stay in Night Vale forever, then I guess I'm willing to do that, too. Because nothing's worth being separated from you. Last night was brutal."

"Yeah, for me, too." 

Carlos ran his fingers along the line of bruises on Cecil's neck. "I can tell. Poor baby. And you really liked this shirt, too." He nuzzled into Cecil's side and breathed in deeply, then stopped dead. "Uh, Cecil?"

"Yes?"

 

"I don't mean to be a jerk, but you really stink right now."

Cecil looked stricken. He generally was quite fastidious about hygiene. "Oh, no, Carlos, I'm so sorry to be offensive..."

Carlos grinned. "Hey, it's nothing that some soap and water won't fix. Tell you what -- why don't you come back to my place, and I'll draw us a nice hot bath. You don't have to work, I don't have to work, we can spend all day just making up and being good to each other. I'll even give you a piece of steak to put on your eye."

"No, that one's vegetarian, I think."

"Uh, well, okay then. An ice pack. Anyway, what do you say?"

"I say that sounds amazing. You go on ahead, I'll meet you back at your apartment. I just want to look through my inbox quick."

"Okay, but don't be long. I missed you."

Cecil grasped Carlos' hand and used him as a counterweight to ease carefully from his supine position. "I missed you, too. I'll be right behind you, I promise." 

Carlos kissed his hand. "It's a date. See you there."

"See you." Cecil went over to the mail cubbies and pretended to be interested in a press release until he heard the front door close. He held his breath for another few moments, then stuck his head out the window.

"Verna! Hey, Verna!" he rasped.

The station's SSP officer peered upside-down from the gutter. "Yes, Mr. Palmer?" Verna was a bit more formal than some of the other officers, and also more hidebound about following the letter of the law. Normally Cecil found that an admirable trait in a Night Vale citizen, but in this case, he hoped she would be willing to flex the rules a tad.

"Hey, Verna, were you on duty last night?"

"Yes, sir. I'm always on duty, sir." He could somehow feel disapproval radiate from behind the leather balaclava. _Oh, I suppose you never cheated on your boyfriend with his double who also happens to be your archenemy, huh, Verna?_ he thought, acidly. But he kept that little observation to himself.

"What happened back here, that was... Well, it was a huge mistake. And it's never, ever going to happen again, you understand. So I was wondering if maybe possibly, I mean, I know you probably have to file some sort of report, but --"

"Sir, the records from last night have been destroyed already."

"Really? Oh, oh, that's, uh, that's wonderful. Might I ask why?"

"Word from the top, sir. Not the way I would do things, but not my call."

"Oh, okay, uh, Verna. And would you please not mention it to anyone?"

"You know what they say, sir. Records or it didn't happen."

"Oh, right. Okay."

"Will that be all, Mr. Palmer?"

"Oh! Yes, Verna, and thank you."

She gave a curt nod, then disappeared back onto the roof. Cecil shook his head, not quite daring to believe his luck. Now all he had to do was live with himself. A voluntary re-education session might do just the trick. Sometimes forgetting things was better than remembering them. 

He took a quick look around the room, then scooped up the wine bottles. No sense letting mediocre Des Moines chablis go to waste. He turned out the lights to the break room, waved goodbye to a scowling Alvin through the sound booth window, then fairly skipped out into the sunlight. It pounded through his hangover like a sledgehammer made of photons, but he couldn't be gloomy.

He was putting the wine bottles in his trunk when something caught his eye. In amongst the various NVCR pledge drive bumper stickers rested a yellow-and-black triangle. "Property of StrexCorp," it read. Cecil grimaced. Those fuckers. He tried to get a fingernail under an edge of the sticker to peel it from the bumper, but he just succeeded in breaking a nail. He felt his blood pressure begin to rise, but then he took a deep breath. He could let it go. Right now, he had a handsome scientist waiting naked in the bath. There would be time to stick it to the man tomorrow. Today was for love, and for reunions, and for making things up to Carlos, even though he'd never know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? It's a happy-ish ending! I'm hoping to write another one of these, from Diego's point of view. Time will tell...


End file.
